"So," Geoffrey said, "if we delay Lionel's long-read until next issue, we'll have room to give Clare* a bit more space." Their intrepid war reporter's latest had been telephoned in from Cairo the previous day and Geoffrey had said immediately that he'd scrap half their planned issue, if only it meant he could fit it in. Quite frankly, Cynthia agreed.

She hmm'ed thoughtfully. "Yes, but only if you break the news to Lionel. I don't think I can face him complaining and stamping his horrid little feet again. To hear him talk, you'd never guess there was a war on at all."

Geoffrey made a note in his diary. "I'll take care of it all. Drag him off for a pint later or something, and lay it all out to him, man-to-man."

"Tha-"

"Miss Gilchrist," an ominous voice announced at the door, "I wants a word wiv you."

From her stool overlooking the desk, which was covered in last-minute proofs, Cynthia pushed up her spectacles onto her forehead and twisted her neck towards the door as the head printer walked in. "Oh, what is it, Mr Lock?" Really, she hadn't known until she and Geoffrey had taken over properly just how much additional work Edith had been doing as editor for all these years. Nowadays, it seemed they spent half their time dealing with utter nonsense - and the more problems they solved, the more seemed to rear their ugly heads.

And now Mr Lock had the air of someone about to add something new to the pile.

"You know those knickers o' yours?" pressed the printer. "They won't split where you wants 'em to, miss."**

"I beg your pardon?" Cynthia echoed, astonished.

Emphatically, Mr Lock waved a piece of newspaper under her nose, jabbing a grimy forefinger at a line near the bottom of the page. "On page ten, miss - that caption under Miss Fowler's fashion piece."

Understanding dawned. "Oh, I see."

There was a muffled snort from the other corner of the office. Geoffrey, behind Mr Lock, had had to bury his fist into his mouth to stifle his laughter. Cynthia could see him going red with the effort. In a desperate effort not to join him, she looked away and started to recite the twelve times table in her head.

"Right, Mr Lock, what are our options?"

When the printer had stomped out, satisfied, Cynthia turned to look at Geoffrey, hands on her hips. Between gulps of laughter, she managed, "Geoffrey, you beast! Just for that, I'm going to make you edit the fashion pages next month."

Geoffrey grinned, thoroughly unrepentant. "Oh, jolly good." He quirked his eyebrows mischievously. "Especially if knickers are involved."

Cynthia rolled her eyes. Trust Geoffrey to take that as promise rather than threat! "Simmer down, Tremaine - they're strictly utility."

"I don't mind all this CC41 gubbins," Geoffrey confessed, propping himself against the desk. "I say, if it's alright for Miss Kerr, it's all right for the rest of us."***

"Deborah Kerr," Cynthia sighed, "could look lovely in sackcloth and ashes."

"Just like you, then," Geoffrey answered immediately - and for a change, there was no hint of humour in his voice.

Cynthia turned away, flushing, to look at the proofs again. "Don't be such a bloody idiot, Geoffrey."

He stepped behind her; Cynthia could feel the warmth of him, he was standing so close. Oddly comforting, that. "I'm not being," he murmured. "I'm - Christ, Cyn, I'm trying to be genuine." At the huff of impatience she gave, he frowned. "That husband of yours really… ground you down, didn't he?"

"Since when do you care?" she muttered. She hated it when people mentioned Andrew. Hardly anyone she still spoke to even knew about him. But Geoffrey was different somehow. He'd always been different.

He covered one of her hands with his from behind. "Since it makes it impossible to say nice things to you without being called - and I quote - 'a bloody idiot.'"

"Geoffrey," she sighed, exasperated, and turned. They were practically nose to nose now, and to her surprise Cynthia didn't dislike it as much as she thought she would. "If we put a skirt and nylons on that lampshade over there, you'd want to 'say nice things' to it. You're a dear, but you've hardly the most discriminating of tastes."

"Well," he shrugged, and dug his hands into his pockets, "at least you think I'm a dear."

Damn. Biting her lip, Cynthia tipped her chin back in challenge. And what exactly are you going to do about that, hmm? "Yes. I do. Just… don't make too much of it?"

"Righto." He checked his watch. "Cup of tea? And then we'll have a last read through Edith's column, eh?"

Cynthia passed him her empty cup. "Cup of tea. Edith's column." At the door, her voice stopped him. "Geoffrey… thanks."

December 1941

"Darling!" Edith threw her arms around Marigold's neck as she dropped her kitbag on to the hall floor. Marigold could tell that her mother was only just managing to hold off peppering her with kisses - so she relented and presented her cheek to be peppered.

Anthony had followed her mother, removing his spectacles to kiss his stepdaughter's other cheek. "Hello, Marigold, m'dear. Good journey?"

"Long, thank you, sir."

Anthony bent and scooped up her bag with his good hand, handing it off to Stewart. "Could you take this up to Miss Marigold's suite, please, Stewart?"

"I'm sorry?" Marigold blinked. "Oh, hello, Mr Stewart - happy Christmas."

The valet gave her a friendly nod of the head as he took her luggage. "Hello, Miss Marigold - and all the good wishes of the season to you, too, miss."

"We were going to leave the choice up to you," Anthony apologised as Stewart began to climb the stairs. "And then your mama quite rightly pointed out that you'd be so tired from the journey, you'd hate to have to bother about all of that. So we've put you in the suite I used to have, while my parents were still alive. I hope it'll suit."

Helpfully, Edith hooked a hand under her arm and advised, "It's at the back of the house, darling, so you get the garden, and the most delicious sunrises. And you're quite at the opposite end from us, so we won't disturb each other."

Marigold didn't particularly want to inquire further about that little fact. "Lovely." She smiled, a little tightly. "But you really didn't need to go to all this trouble. I'll be going back on duty right after Christmas Day - "

"Well, yes," Anthony agreed. "But when you come for holidays and so forth, you don't want to be moving around every time. This is your home, for Heavens' sake. Or… one of them, at least."

"Ummm…" Marigold's eyebrows were going red, a sure sign that she was on the verge of tears. "I have to go and powder my nose before we eat. Thank you, sir."

As she dashed off down the passage, Anthony winced. "I'm sorry. Did I misstep?"

Edith kissed his cheek. "On the contrary. That was a very nice thing that you said. Marigold just… doesn't like to break down in front of other people, in the general way of things. She's… as tough as nails."

"Remind you of anyone?" His hand slid to the small of her back and pulled her against him, safe and tight. Edith had started to grow deliciously used to this, this comfortable, easy affection, just there for the taking whenever she wanted it. She hummed in wry agreement against his shoulder. Anthony's fingers squeezed in response. "Got to cure her of calling me 'sir' all the time, though," he observed against her forehead. "I thought it was just… the newness of it all, but we've been married for almost three months now…"

"I'll work on it," Edith promised. "It's nothing personal, my darling. She likes you, honestly she does. It's just… Marigold being Marigold."

Anthony kissed her hand, still frowning. "I just… want you to be happy, both of you. More than anything."

"I know. She knows. And appreciates it, too."

Decorating the tree in the library the next day, Edith broached the subject. "You don't have to address Anthony so formally, you know. I'm not going to suggest 'Papa', or anything like that but… you could just… use his Christian name. He wouldn't mind - in fact, he'd welcome it."

Marigold shot her a scandalised look through the paper chains she was trying to drape over the tree's lower branches. "Mother!" She lowered her voice to a shocked whisper. "I can't address a senior ex-Intelligence officer who was awarded the DSO with ribbon bar by his Christian name! It would be… so awfully disrespectful!"

Edith grinned. "Whatever happened to the progressive younger generation? I thought you didn't care about all that nonsense?"

"It's not nonsense!" Marigold insisted. "I - I just couldn't. Mother, really. I have enough trouble not saluting him every time I see him."

"All right." Edith hung another bauble on the tree. "Just as long as you realise, he'll laugh himself sick over it..."

Anthony didn't laugh though. Instead, he shuffled uncomfortably in his chair. "Didn't you tell her the DSO was all just stuff and nonsense?" he asked. Marigold had already gone to bed, and he and Edith were curled up in the library, as was their general custom in the evenings.

"No." Edith looked severely at him over the tops of her reading glasses. "For one thing, it makes me as proud as punch of you every time I think about it. And for another, I don't think it would have done any good anyway. She takes it all rather seriously."

"And exactly how long is that going to last?" A thought struck and horror suffused his face. "Good Lord, she's going to make her children call me 'sir' too, isn't she?"

Edith stifled a laugh. "Quite probably, yes. But let's just hope that we have a few more years before we have to worry about that, hmm?"

"Mrs Cox?" Jim peered in through the kitchen window of the coach house, doing his best (thoroughly suspicious) impression of someone trying to carry out a covert operation. He'd arrived at Locksley an hour earlier and had slipped away at the earliest opportunity, before his uncle and newly-minted step-aunt had had time to do more than say 'hello' to him. He hadn't seen hide nor hair of Marigold. Some missions were just too important to delay. "Psst, Mrs Cox!"

"Master Jim?" she frowned, dusted off her floury hands, and came to unlatch the door that led out to the kitchen garden. "And what do you want? There's no scraps for you here, I'm afraid, my lad - it's all gone for the pig."

"No, thanks." Jim flushed, looking more like that greedy schoolboy he'd been than any grown man had a right to. "I, ah, wondered if you could do me a favour." He dug into his uniform overcoat pocket with a gloved hand and pulled out two lines of clothing coupons.

The old cook carried on rolling out pastry, one eye on him. "What do you want me to do with those, eh?"

"Well, it's Christmas, and - and I'm sure Miss Marigold must be running short - you know, of - of stockings and dresses and - and - " Jim gestured wildly with one hand as if he couldn't think of whatever else women might find themselves wearing. "And anyway, I… just thought I could help out a bit. I'm in uniform most of the time anyway, and I've still got masses of shirts and suits and things from before the war. So I just thought… you could… slip these to her, somehow." He bit his lip anxiously. "What do you think?"

"I think it's a very generous idea, my lad." Despite the warm words, Mrs Cox put her hands on her hips. "But whyever aren't you giving 'em to her yourself, eh?"

Jim shrugged sheepishly. "She wouldn't take them from me. But… she thinks you're the tops, and you've got a wonderful way of getting people to do whatever you ask them to, Mrs Cox. You're really a marvel."

She clucked her tongue impatiently at him. "And you're a shameless flirt, James Chetwood. What your mama would say if she were here, I don't know." But perhaps if she were here, you wouldn't be making such a mutt of yourself. The thought of Miss Diana, as was, softened her. She certainly wouldn't have let Master Jim wander round the place feeling so sorry for himself - nor jilting girls he were in love with, neither. Mrs Cox dusted her hands off on her apron and beckoned. "Give 'em here, then."

"Thanks, Mrs Cox." He swooped and kissed her cheek, making her laugh. "And remember - not a word to Miss Marigold!"

"Loose lips sink ships? All right." She shook her head as Jim ducked out into the kitchen garden again. A moment later, she heard him whistling as he trundled back along the garden path. "Oh, my lad," she sighed. "Why you're always so intent on making things as hard as possible for yourself, I don't know." She reached for the pastry cutter. "Get that from your uncle though, I s'pose…"

"But why do I have to open mine early?" Marigold asked, bewildered. She'd been sent to Mrs Cox's, three days before Christmas Day, to hand over Sir Anthony's usual basket of Christmas cheer and the old cook had taken her chance to hand over her gifts to the Locksley house in return. Now, Marigold sat at her immaculately scrubbed wooden table, a large cup of tea and an unopened Christmas card in front of her.

"Because if you leave it until Christmas Day," Mrs Cox said, somewhat cryptically, "you won't have time to make use of it before your mama's party."

Marigold opened her Christmas card and gave a cry of delight as the clothing coupons slipped out. "Oh, Mrs Cox! You shouldn't have! What if you need them?"

"Bah, what's an old bird like me going to spend clothing coupons on, Miss Marigold? You away and buy yourself a nice frock, now. Lots of nice gentlemen to impress tomorrow night - and Master Jim, I suppose."

Marigold spluttered with laughter as tea went up her nose. "You say that as if Jim isn't a nice gentleman!"

"Well, I think he is." Mrs Cox raised a wry eyebrow. "Didn't think you did, though, Miss Marigold."

Marigold wriggled her shoulders uncomfortably. "Well… I don't… that's to say… he's… all right, I suppose." Loftily, she added, "And anyway, it's Mother's first Christmas here - she shouldn't have to worry about her relations fighting with Sir Anthony's."

"Quite right too," Mrs Cox approved. "And how are you finding all of that, my lamb?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, your mama and Sir Anthony, wed and all."

Marigold's face creased into a shy smile. "It's… rather nice, actually. He's… lovely." Really, all it had meant was a doubling - both of weekly letters from home, and her allowance. She'd tried to talk to Sir Anthony about that last one several times now, but every time she'd raised the subject, somehow he'd managed to distract her from it. Perhaps she'd have better luck with Mother. Really, it wasn't as if she weren't paid for her work. "And he adores Mother, of course."

"Mmm, that he does." With the air of a fisherman scooping up an easily caught prize, Mrs Cox added, "So why are you still calling him 'sir', then, eh?"

Marigold felt like a mouse who had just been caught in a most sudden and unexpected trap. Mother's meddling again, she supposed. She gaped at Mrs Cox. "It's not - I'm not - he isn't - "

Stop stammering, Marigold! She shut her mouth abruptly, swallowed and said, as she'd been saying to Mother, "It just wouldn't be respectful not to."

"'Respectful' my eye!" snorted Mrs Cox. "Your mama respects him - don't hear her calling him 'sir.'"

"That's different! She's his wife!"

"And you're his daughter, aren't you? Or near enough as makes no difference."

Marigold shrugged her shoulders. Mrs Cox raised her eyebrows to herself and poured another cup of tea. "I've never known a man more fitted to be a father," she commented after a few minutes of silence. "The first Lady Strallan and him were never blessed, of course, and your mama's too old now to be starting little ones. But there is you."

"What are you saying, exactly?"

"Well, only that there's respect and then there's flat nonsense," said Mrs Cox severely, "and it would be nonsense, to keep on holding him at arms' length, when he's without a child, and you're without a father." As Marigold stared deeply into the fire, Mrs Cox hauled herself to her feet and kissed the top of her head. "Just something to think on, hmm, young 'un?"

AN:

* My Clare is named after the real-life war reporter Clare Hollingworth, who was the first journalist to report the outbreak of WW2. She spent some of the war reporting from Cairo, too, like my Clare here.

** This is a real-life story recalled by the editor of Vogue, Audrey Withers from when she was still a sub-editor at the magazine. It was too funny to resist including it!

***CC41 was the label applied to so-called 'utility' clothing once clothing rationing came in; Deborah Kerr modelled several utility pieces in order to encourage ordinary people to start wearing them.